Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

Lund went into the kitchen and took a handful of green beans from the basket.

The two sat side by side on small stools. One was tearing off the ends and removing the tendons from the bean curd, while the other was cutting the pork belly into cubes.

My mother's knife skills were excellent; with a few quick cuts, she divided a piece of pork belly into neat little pieces.

"You're in the city..." the mother began.

Lund paused for a moment.

"What kind of work do you do?"

Lund thought for a moment.

"Teaching people to box."

The mother responded with an "oh".

"Can you support yourself?"

"able."

"That's fine then."

Mother poured the meat chunks into the pot, and the oil sizzled.

The aroma of caramelized meat quickly filled the entire kitchen.

The mother, her back to Lund, was stirring the pot with the spatula when she suddenly said:

"You used to get into fights when you were little too."

"..."

"Every time you came back with a bruised and swollen face, your dad would sit next to you and sigh, wanting to scold you but not daring to."

Lund was silent for a moment.

"After that, I stopped losing," he said.

The mother chuckled but didn't reply.

The meat chunks in the pot were fried until slightly browned. She added soy sauce and sugar to the pot, then covered it and simmered it over low heat.

"Go and rest." Mother wiped her hands with her apron. "The meat needs to stew for more than an hour."

Lund stood up, but did not leave.

He looked at the wall above the stove, yellowed by cooking fumes.

There was an old calendar on the wall, the date still stuck on a certain day many years ago—the day he left home.

Following his gaze, his mother silently tore off the old calendar, revealing the even yellower paint on the wall underneath.

"It should have been torn up a long time ago," she said, her tone indifferent.

Lund didn't say anything.

He turned and walked out of the kitchen, sitting down on the old sofa in the living room.

The sunlight outside the window was already setting in the west, and the sounds of children's laughter and bicycle bells drifted from the alley.

It was quiet and ordinary.

But it was this ordinariness that made him feel a tightness in his throat.

He recalled the places he had lived over the years—the cheap housing at the docks, the back room of the boxing gym, the guest rooms on the estate, and various damp and gloomy hotels.

Nowhere else can you find this flavor.

Pork bone soup, flour, laundry soap, moldy walls, and the faint smell of cooking oil on my mother.

This is home.

It was dilapidated, cramped, and riddled with endless problems.

But it is alive.

Lund closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the sofa.

More than an hour later, the aroma of braised pork wafted out of the kitchen.

The rich aroma of soy sauce and the slightly sweet taste of caramel blend together, forcefully penetrating the nasal cavity.

"Dinner's ready!"

My mother's voice came from the kitchen.

Lund opened his eyes.

He realized that he had actually fallen asleep, without dreams, without torrential rain, without waves.

I just slept soundly and in the dark.

This was the most peaceful night's sleep he had had in years.

Three dishes were laid out on the round table: braised pork, stir-fried green beans, and a dish of pickled cucumbers.

There was also a bowl of white rice, piled high.

Lund sat down and picked up his chopsticks.

The braised pork belly is cooked to perfection; the fat melts in your mouth, the lean meat is tender but not falling apart, and the sauce coats every inch of the surface.

"tasty."

The mother smiled.

She only picked up two green beans with her chopsticks and pushed all the meat into Lund's bowl.

Eat more.

Lund didn't stand on ceremony.

He ate six pieces of meat and two bowls of rice in a row, and only put down his chopsticks when his stomach was slightly bloated.

The mother collected the dishes and took them to the kitchen to wash.

Lund stood up and walked to the kitchen doorway.

"I'll wash it."

"I don't need you—"

"I'll do it."

Lund gently pushed his mother away from the pool and put his hand into the cool water.

The grease on the dishes was difficult to wash in cold water, so he found a small piece of soap that was almost used up and carefully washed each dish twice.

His mother leaned against the door frame, watching his back.

His broad shoulders almost completely blocked the entire pool.

She remembered those hands when they were very young; they couldn't even hold a bowl properly. Once, they broke her favorite blue and white porcelain bowl into three pieces, which scared her so much that she cried.

Now those hands are large and strong, with long, slender fingers and distinct knuckles, but there are a few shallow old scars on the back of the hands.

She didn't ask how she got those scars.

"All washed." Lund stacked the dishes and put them in the cupboard, then dried his hands.

"Want to go for a walk?" the mother asked.

"good."

The mother and son went out.

The alley was bustling in the evening, with every household's door open and the aroma of food wafting from their windows.

Aunt Zhang was sitting at the doorway, fanning herself with a palm leaf fan and shelling soybeans. When she saw Lund, she squinted and stared at him for a long time.

"Oh my, isn't this Roy's son! It's been so many years, he's grown so tall!"

Lund bowed slightly: "Hello, Aunt Zhang."

"Okay, okay." Aunt Zhang grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. "Your mother talks about you all the time, always saying you're busy in the city. Stay a few more days this time!"

"Yes."

The mother laughed beside her, "He'll only stay for two days."

"Two days isn't enough!" Aunt Zhang scolded playfully, then turned and called into the alley, "Old Wang! Roy's son is back!"

A gruff voice came from the other end: "Who is it? Lund? That kid's back?"

A short, stout old man poked his head out from the opposite courtyard, carrying a pot of freshly brewed tea.

"Hey, it really is you!" Old Wang winked at him, "Goodness, you're even taller than your dad."

Lund smiled.

His mother pulled him along as they walked, nodding and greeting the neighbors they encountered.

Everyone in the alley seemed to know his mother. Everyone who passed by would strike up a conversation: someone who had borrowed a bottle of vinegar and hadn't returned it yet, someone who had looked after the cat for half a day last week, and someone who had gone to the market with him the day before yesterday.

Lund walked silently beside his mother, his hands in his pockets.

He now understands why his mother didn't want to move.

This is not a problem with a house.

It is the warmth and human touch of an entire alley and a whole neighborhood.

My mother lives here alone, but she is not lonely.

She has her neighbors, her morning market, her shopping basket, and her floral apron.

She doesn't need a big house or a housekeeper.

All she needed to know was that her son was alive and would come back occasionally.

The two walked out of the alley and up a gentle slope to the low hills on the edge of the town.

On the hilltop stands a crooked old willow tree, and beneath it is a stone bench.

The writing on the stone bench is now blurred, but Lund remembers that he and a group of children carved it with stones when they were kids.

The mother sat down on the stone bench, and Lund stood beside her.

The setting sun was painting the horizon a deep orange-red.

In the distance, the wheat fields rippled with golden waves as the wind blew, and the spire of the church bell tower cast a long, thin shadow in the twilight.

"This place hasn't changed," Lund said.

"Nothing has changed," the mother replied.

The two of them watched the sunset in silence.

The cicadas' chirping gradually subsided, and in their place, crickets began to tentatively chirp.

The mother rested her hands on her knees, her gaze fixed on the distance.

"You're in the city..." she began again.

Lund waits.

"Have you... found a girl?"

"……No."

"There's no rush," the mother said calmly. "We'll see when we meet the right person."

After a pause, she added:

"But if you come across it, bring it back so I can see it."

Lund turned his head to look at his mother.

The setting sun shone on her gray hair, gilding it with a layer of gold.

Her face bore the marks of time: wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, forehead lines, and two shallow nasolabial folds around her mouth.

But those eyes were still bright, exactly the same as I remembered.

"Okay," Lund said.

His mother nodded, patted his arm, and stood up.

"I'm going back. It's dark and the road is hard to walk on."

Lund took her arm, and the two walked back down the gentle slope.

The lights in the alley were already on, casting a dim yellow light from the windows of each house, drawing patches of light on the stone pavement.

When he got home, his mother made up a bed for him—the same iron-framed bed he slept in as a child. The mattress had been replaced, but the bed frame was the same one, with peeling paint and pits.

"Go to bed early," the mother said, standing at the doorway.

"Okay. Goodnight."

"Good night."

The door closed gently.

Lund lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

There was a crack in the ceiling that stretched from directly below the light to the corner, like a river.

When he was a child, he always thought that crack looked like a sword.

Now it looks more like a gun.

He rolled over and faced the wall.

The wallpaper has yellowed and peeled off; some corners have curled up, revealing the plaster underneath.

He closed his eyes; there was no sound of torrential rain, no sound of waves.

There were no eerie whispers.

Only the soft sound of a mother turning off the light from next door could be heard, followed by complete silence throughout the entire building.

Lund fell into a peaceful sleep in the silence.

early morning!

Lund was awakened by the sound of chopping vegetables.

Boom boom boom boom—the rhythm is even, crisp and powerful.

He opened his eyes. It was still early outside the window, and a gray-blue light shone through the gaps in the curtains.

—What time is it?

He glanced at the old alarm clock on the bedside table; the hands pointed to 5:40.

Mother is already up.

Lund lay in bed for a while, listening to the sounds coming from the kitchen.

The sounds of the spatula hitting the side of the pan, the sizzling of oil hitting the hot pan, and the gentle tapping of eggshells.

He sat up and put his bare feet on the floor.

The wooden planks were cool and somewhat rough, giving a solid feel underfoot.

Lund got dressed and opened the door.

The aroma of fried eggs wafted over.

My mother was standing in front of the stove, wearing a floral apron, flipping the spatula in her hand.

Hearing the door open, she didn't even turn her head: "You're up? Go wash your face, you'll be done soon."

"Um."

Lund walked into the small bathroom.

There was a thin layer of condensation on the mirror. He reached out and wiped it away, then saw his own face reflected in the mirror.

I feel much better than yesterday.

The dark circles under his eyes had faded somewhat, and the tense, fierce look between his brows had relaxed.

He turned on the tap to wash his face and found an old toothbrush—the bristles were all frayed, but after brushing with it, he found that it was still usable.

After I finished cleaning up, breakfast was already laid out on the table.

Two fried eggs, a dish of pickled vegetables, three steamed buns, and a bowl of thin porridge.

Simple, but substantial.

"Eat." His mother handed him the chopsticks.

Lund sat down and took a bite of his steamed bun.

The soft, fragrant dough spreads in your mouth.

My mother sat opposite me, holding a bowl of porridge in her hands, sipping it slowly.

The two didn't say much, but the silence wasn't awkward; rather, it was a tacit understanding born from being accustomed to each other's rhythm.

After breakfast, Lund insisted on washing the dishes.

His mother didn't stop him; she just stood beside him and handed him a clean rag: "Dry the dishes after washing them. Don't leave them to drip water; they'll easily get moldy."

"understood."

After washing and drying the dishes, Lund wiped his hands on his apron—and then he realized that he had put on an apron himself without even realizing it.

The mother saw it and chuckled.

"Like your dad."

Lund looked down at the floral apron around his waist, which was clearly too small, and paused for a moment.

"...I've solved it."

"Don't misunderstand." The mother came over and tightened the apron straps a little more. "In a little while, could you help me loosen the soil in those pots on the balcony so that the apron won't get my clothes dirty?"

"good."

Lund helped his mother loosen the soil in the flowerpots and then used sandpaper to smooth out the rust that had accumulated on the iron railings of the balcony over the years.

The sun rose, and the alley gradually became lively.

Aunt Zhang passed by the door and called out to my mother to go grocery shopping together. My mother responded and went out with the shopping basket.

Before leaving, he glanced back at Lund and said, "Don't wander off. Be back in a bit."

It's like giving instructions to a ten-year-old child.

Lund didn't refute, he just nodded.

……

After his mother left, Lund walked around the room.

He walked to the window, sat down, and pulled a folded cowhide envelope from his suitcase.

The bag contained several blank sheets of paper and a fountain pen.

The fountain pen was a cheap one he bought at the dock; the nib was a bit crooked, so the characters he wrote were always uneven in thickness.

Lund unscrewed the pen cap and spread the first sheet of paper on the table.

He paused for a moment.

Then I put pen to paper.

The handwriting wasn't particularly beautiful, even a bit rough, but each stroke was extremely neat and powerful.

"Silon—"

He paused for a few seconds after writing those two words.

The image of that boy walking towards me in the pouring rain flashed through my mind.

Those calm eyes, that outstretched hand.

And that sentence—

Please let me protect you just this once.

Lund's lips twitched slightly as he continued writing:

"I'm home, in Tukor, at my mother's place."

I am not currently at the club. If there is any emergency, please ask Saiwei to relay the message.

There's nothing wrong with my body; the dark line on my left arm is perfectly still and shows no signs of spreading.

How's the situation on your end? Has the war affected operations in the North? Have you investigated the matter of the Brotherhood branch being spied on?

Don't be reckless.

Your current strength is sufficient to deal with most Tier 2 opponents, but don't face something you don't understand alone.

Practice your spear skills every day, using three-tenths of your strength in four moves, and don't be lazy.

The second step of not touching the Crimson Star Spear is not allowed until the aura is compressed to more than 35%.

The mark on my right wrist—if there is any unusual movement, even the slightest one, write to me immediately.

Don't try to handle it yourself.

Lund paused for a moment after writing this.

He pondered his words, and after a long while added two more lines:

"I will start making arrangements for the Iron Cross Club as soon as I get back."

Once everything is in order, I will write to the people of the Iron Blood Society. You can come over then, and I will take you there.

Take good care of yourself.

— Lund

He blew on the ink off the letter, folded it in half, stuffed it into an old envelope, and sealed it with sealing wax.

The envelope was addressed to: North End, 17 Tyne Street, West Lun.

set aside.

Lund pulled a second sheet of paper from the envelope.

This time, he did not start writing immediately.

He leaned back in his chair, holding a pen in his right hand, his thumb slowly stroking the pen barrel.

Ironblood Society!

Its full name is "Iron-Blooded Knights Society".

It consists of retired imperial officers, extraordinary individuals who survived the battlefield, and some extraordinary individuals who have proven themselves in the chaos of war.

The lowest threshold – a second-tier extraordinary individual.

Most of the core members are at the third rank.

President—

Lund remembered that person.

An old man who has been retired from the battlefield for many years, but extraordinary people who have served in the military will still subconsciously straighten their backs when his name is mentioned.

Wolf Weber.

Former deputy commander of the Third Division of the Empire, a retired Tier 3 Extraordinary.

It is said that he went to the front lines when he was young and personally killed four third-tier evil alien species.

Now living in an old gray-walled building in the central district, her hobbies are growing flowers and repairing clocks.

He presided over the monthly association meetings.

Lund had dealt with him three times.

The first time was five years ago, when Lund won seventeen consecutive matches in an underground fighting tournament, which caught the attention of the society.

The second time was three years ago, when Lund unintentionally helped a member of the society while training at the beach—the man was trapped by a lost alien creature, and Lund casually solved the problem as he passed by.

The third time was a year ago, when Wolf visited the Iron Cross Club in person.

That time, Wolf sat in a corner of the club, drank a cup of cheap tea, and watched Lund instruct the students on shooting for the entire afternoon.

He left only one sentence before he left—

"If you ever want to bring anyone with you, just write me a letter."

Lund simply responded politely.

But now, he remembered those words.

He lowered his head, the pen tip touching the paper:

"Mr. Weber, President —"

I apologize for writing this letter so abruptly.

Please allow me to introduce my disciple to you.

A promising young man named Xilun.

From the North District, not very old, a second-tier Ripper.

But I can tell you with certainty that his strength and growth rate far exceed those of his peers.

I am not someone who praises others easily, and the president should know this.

Xiren has mastered more than one breathing technique, and has made considerable progress in each. His Natan Heavy Armor Gun Technique has reached the master level, and he has also begun to learn my Crimson Star Gun.

During my injury, he faced the infighting of various forces in the North District alone, killing three second-tier extraordinary individuals single-handedly without sustaining any harm himself.

He's not the kind of reckless brute who only knows how to act blindly.

He is calm, patient, and has his own judgment.

He harbored hatred, but he was not consumed by it. He had a goal, and he was taking steps toward that goal.

This is my only disciple.

I rarely ask for favors, but this time, I hope you can give him a chance.

Let him see what a true powerhouse looks like.

Let him know how vast the world beyond the second level is.

I will confirm the specific time with you after I return to the city.

Yours sincerely.

— Lund